


Who's Zoomin' Who?

by Tammany



Series: Mr. Spence's Repose [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Sherlock Being a Drama Queen, Showtime!, Who's zoomin' who?, plots within plots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:49:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4529631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More of Mr. Spence and Deek Lestrade's life. The story is reaching its conclusion, one way or another. </p><p>There are a couple of surprises embedded in this, and people are keeping secrets from other people. What fun!</p><p>Have fun, friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who's Zoomin' Who?

Sherlock waited, impatient, until he was sure the two men in Mycroft’s room were asleep. Knowing them, knowing the high level of espionage skills they could muster, he spared no effort, checking first the bugs he’d managed to slip into the bedroom, then easing the door open and peering in.

The sight unsettled him…indeed, practically set his skin creeping. He brought too many conflicting feelings to this. Sex itself perturbed him. Though no longer a virgin, he remained wary of the feelings it roused, both physical and emotional. Even simple things—a kiss, an embrace—could leave him feeling as though a sniper’s cross-hairs had settled on his forehead. As for homosexuality? He’d reached a blunt, edgy compromise with his brother’s orientation. “It’s all good,” as John once stated it. A policy to live by, if not a feeling he could ever fully muster.

He’d never been at ease with Mycroft’s leanings. He’d avoided knowing what he could. He’d given in to the temptation to taunt and tease about an issue he could not entirely ignore. He’d known, technically, that Lestrade was bi, but had settled on seeing him as actually more asexual, once the divorce had occurred.

Now his dreadful, wonderful, maddening brother was coiled in the arms of Sherlock’s beloved, cherished, maddening mentor. They lay together, breathing deeply. Mycroft’s fingers were knit into the fleece of Lestrade’s zip-front jogging jacket. The dog Archie lay against the small of Lestrade’s back.

The dog, of course, had woken, though the men had not. His black eyes stared at Sherlock. A low, gritty growl carried across the room. He was guarding Master and Master’s Beloved.

Sherlock sighed, and slipped back into the hall, closing the door behind him. He leaned wearily against the hallway, head tipped back, eyes shut against the low light cast by the little safety lamp near the stair.

This was a disaster. He should never have given in to his own sense of mischief and hinted Lestrade into locating Mycroft the previous spring. But it had been so tempting—Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, reduced to the life of a lowly freelance web designer, and so few people Sherlock could share the joke with.

He hadn’t expected Lestrade to do more than laugh his arse off and buy Sherlock a few pints in gratitude for the entertainment. He certainly had never expected this. The two men—the house, the flat, the gardens, the horse, the dog, the chickens. Dahlias—Lestrade had planted dahlias. And tomato vines. They went to lunch at the pub and chatted with the local old timers.

Their eyes followed each other, as Archie’s eyes followed anyone he feared might threaten them.

“Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell. What do I do now?”

No one in the dark hallway answered. Not that Sherlock had expected them to.

He straightened and slipped silent down the hall, down the stairs, through the ground story, coming to the kitchen door. He let himself out, and disappeared into shadow. With care he was able to stay hidden, until he was in the lee of the little stable used for Domenic, Mycroft’s riding hack. Only then did Sherlock risk slipping out his mobile. His fingers flew quickly over the keys.

_Can’t use plan A. SH_

Why?

_Because. SH_

_That’s not a reason, Mr. Holmes._

Sherlock scowled. _It is all the reason I intend to provide. We can’t use plan A. Need to either keep subjects as a unit, complete with the damned livestock, or find a way to leave them here. SH_

The pause before a response suggested vituperative swearing occurred before his contact was able to manage the keys for a reply. _You’re joking, right? Including the chickens?_

 _Chickens, yes._ Sherlock had squirmed at Mycroft and Lestrade’s faces when the one hen was killed. It had been forced on his awareness that whatever bond the two had formed, it included a besotted love of their damned animal family, too. _Everything. All of it. SH_

_That’s not practical. It’s not logical. Mr. Holmes himself would say so._

_Well, this particular Mr. Holmes says we’ve got to play this another way. SH_

_But this was going to cut the final threads. Once we moved him, no one would find him ever again._

_I know. SH_

_All right. Do you have any genius ideas, then? Because I’m fresh out._

Sherlock shivered—not just from the chill night air, but from the knowledge that he was about to set in motion a plan that only a lunatic could love: a suicidal lunatic at that. Still…

 _Need you here,_ he typed. _Need you to bring witnesses…_

For the next hour he tapped out messages some might have called betrayal—of his brother and his nation. Others would have at the least considered it reckless. Mycroft, if he’d learned…

Well. Mycroft wouldn’t learn. At least, not until it was over and done with.

When he’d sorted it all, he took one more pass to review.

_Rendezvous just before sunrise, right? SH_

_Yeah, yeah, right. I’m not stupid, Mr. Holmes._

_No. You’re not. You’re the one person I know who ever defeated Mycroft outright. SH_

_Only with help from you, Sherlock. And even then…he was ready for us. We wouldn’t be in this situation if he hadn’t been ready for us._

_No. We’d be in worse trouble. SH_

He could almost hear the heavy sigh. _Yes. All right. Point taken. But—Sherlock, if this goes wrong…_

_It won’t. SH_

_You can’t promise that._

_It won’t go wrong. SH_

_All right. All right. Sunrise. And be ready to keep them all safe—the way you’ve planned this, I can’t._

_I know. Just—don’t let your people shoot if it can be helped. SH_

_Then make sure it can be helped._

_Just go. Get this organized. SH_

He waited long minutes to see if any response would come in.

This was going to be a bitch, he thought. He wondered how long it would take before Mycroft would forgive him—for sins past, and for sins soon to come.

oOo

 

The sky was lit with the faint silver of false dawn when Mycroft woke to Archie’s saw-toothed growl. Years of training—of dark expectation—kept him still, breath held as he listened to the house and grounds, filtering out Archie’s angry grumble.

So quiet. So very quiet. Ah—there. Someone had bumped into the sofa downstairs, failing to predict the slight angle at which it stood.

He touched Lestrade, one hand going to lightly cover the man’s mouth.

“Intruders,” he whispered as his friend’s eyes blinked open.

Lestrade nodded. He twisted his neck, freeing his mouth. “Weapons?” he hissed.

Mycroft shrugged. “None I can reach in time. Not that they help, usually. Standard rules apply. Anything is a weapon.”

They were both already rising, moving silently with sock feet in the dark room. Archie paced around their shins, gritching and grumbling.

“Get a leash on him, My,” Lestrade said, softly.

Mycroft nodded, and sacrificed two of “Mr. Spence’s” rather gaudy ties to fashion a secure lead for the tetchy little Scottish terrier. He tied one end to the radiator under the bedroom window.

The two men found cover, and kept still. They might be wrong, after all—and there was nothing to be gained in a heroic run through unknown enemies. Let the bastards find them…they’d have the advantage of surprise, or at least such limited surprise as was available.

They tracked the tiny sounds the intruders made as they moved through the house. Up the stair. Doors opening along the hallway…

The bedroom door eased open.

“I wouldn’t,” Mycroft said, voice pleasant. “You’re already in sufficient trouble as it is.”

Silence answered. Then a figure appeared in the door—slim, straight, dressed in a neat woman’s suit in silver grey, that seemed to glow in the half-light coming in the window.

Mycroft just barely managed to bite back a reflexive, “Anthea…” Instead he stared at her, big-eyed, trying to think like a civilian—like little Mr. Spence, who’d never held a hand gun, much less one like the Walther automatic he had secreted behind a wall panel downstairs.

Anthea moved like a ghost, crossing the room a step at a time, eyes fixed on him.

He shivered. He had changed so little about himself when he left, counting on the sheer improbability of Mycroft Holmes living as Mr. Spence to cover his tracks. Who would look for him here? Who would see him, in little Mr. Spence’s quiet, modest life?

“Holger, some light here,” Anthea said. A moment later Mycroft found himself caught in the blaze of a portable spot of some sort—intense, unforgiving. He couldn’t help squinching his eyes against the glare.

Anthea blinked, then stepped closer, leaning in to study his face. She frowned.

“Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft clutched at straws. She was asking, not stating…

“Who?” he replied, letting all his fear and insecurity fill his voice. “Who?”

“You’re not an owl,” she snapped, and grabbed his chin in strong fingers. He could feel the slight stab of her manicured nails—not enough to break skin, but inevitable as she held his face firm. She cocked her head, frowning. “Damn. You look like him…” She let go. “Mycroft, it won’t work. This is…impossible. Give it up.”

He wavered, unsure. If she was convinced he was Mycroft, it was hopeless. If she was in any doubt, how could he give the game up?

“He’s not Mycroft Holmes.”

Lestrade’s voice, growling from the back corner of the room. Anthea looked up, startled, and met Lestrade’s eyes.

“Inspector?”

“Retired,” he said. “It’s not Mycroft. Looks like Mycroft—hell, I thought he was Mycroft, first time I spotted him. But he’s not Mycroft.”

She sniffed. “Mr. Holmes was always quite good at covert ops, when he could be convinced to take them on,” she said.

“Not Mycroft,” he said again. Then he clucked his tongue, and Archie whined and tugged at his improvised lead, trying to reach the former detective. The man cocked his head toward the scruffy little beast. “He keeps Archie,” he said, as though that explained everything. “Can you imagine Mycroft keeping a Scottie?”

Anthea blinked and frowned. Then she scowled. “Haskins! Samples.” She glared at Mycroft. “Don’t be an idiot. Don’t fight. It’s just DNA swabs.”

Mycroft didn’t know whether to panic or relax. He’d spent hours replacing existing DNA records. And he couldn’t believe Anthea didn’t know instantly who he was… but…

Do not look gift horses in the mouth. Speaking of which, he opened his wide, letting the strange man on Anthea’s team swab his inner cheek. Not just once, either: they took multiple samples, and then added in skin scrapings and blood swabs taken with a tiny fingerprick flechette. Then he edged toward Lestrade—playing his role, reinforcing Lestrade’s own performance.

“Who are they?” he husked, letting his voice shake…his hands shake.

The samples wouldn’t match the record for Mycroft Holmes. They’d suggest close relationship, but no match. An unknown cousin, but not a match.

But—

Anthea frowned at him, and muttered, “Pull-over sweater vest?” She scoffed and shook her head.

He’d trained her better, damn it. She knew who he was. She had to know. A change of clothes didn’t change the man who wore the clothes.

She looked at him, narrowly. “It’s going to take hours to get back results. We’re staying until the results are back.”

If he’d been in charge he’d have taken himself and Lestrade captive and held them in an MI6 safe house, he thought. Staying in civilian territory complicated things. There were too many elements not under your control when you occupied enemy territory. But…

“It’s too late to go back to sleep,” he said, intentionally allowing a blend of affront and terror to rocket through his voice. “Can we make breakfast?”

She smirked at him. “Bacon, two eggs over easy, buttered toast for me.”

He drew a breath. “You’ve rather more people than I’m prepared to host.”

“My men can arrange their own brekkers,” she said.

He nodded. He considered asking if they could bring in more supplies while they were at it. He decided that while Mycroft Holmes would presume to ask, Mr. Spence would not. He looked at Lestrade. “Untie Archie,” he said. “You can help me in the kitchen.”

At least the kitchen was several doors closer to escape than the bedroom.

He wondered, fretfully, where Sherlock was.

oOo

So far Sherlock hadn’t had to make an appearance. He couldn’t help but hope he wouldn’t have to.

He’d imagined it for years—the slow realization blossoming on Mycroft’s face. The crashing recognition that Anthea could never have succeeded in her coup without help. But it had been time…and the situation had put Mycroft in the cross hairs of too many. When Anthea had approached him, he’d tentatively agreed. After the private meeting with the Prime Minister and Her Majesty, he’d thrown in with them.

He was currently curled up in the stable, waiting and watching. He knew he was the final piece in the little drama he and Anthea were playing out. Holger and the rest of the team—they were the audience. New men and women, who didn’t know Mycroft. They’d take Anthea’s word. And if they didn’t take her word, they’d trust the tests. And if they didn’t trust the tests…

Sherlock was waiting for his moment to enter for good reasons. The show must go on. The audience awaited.

Well. The first tier of the audience. He still wasn’t sure how many other people were watching Mr. Spence’s little home today, their long-range surveillance equipment focused on the modest home of a modest web designer, waiting to see if they would catch bigger fish entirely.

It had been such fun working on the coup. If Sherlock had been another person he might have felt shame at the unbridled glee he’d felt in helping Anthea force his brother into flight, into hiding. Instead he’d just wallowed in the happy knowledge that, for once in his life, the tables were turned, and it was his right—no, his very obligation!—to beat big brother at his own sly games. It was for Mycroft’s own good, and for the good of the nation. Cheers to Sherlock! Huzzah for Baby Brother!

It had been such fun keeping an eye on Mycroft, in his reduced estate. Spying for months. Then the first appearance, and the satisfaction that Mycroft never caught on.

Sherlock leaned his head against his knee, frowning as he tried to track the conversation his earpiece relayed from the house beyond. Something about bacon, he thought. Bacon and toast…

Had Mycroft realized yet that this was a performance? One aimed at more than just him?

He hoped not. He wasn’t ready to give up the glee of having won.

He closed his eyes, and waited for his cue to enter.

oOo

“First results,” Holger said quietly to Anthea, as she sat at the kitchen table eating a fry-up made for her by Mycroft Holmes and his lover. She refused to glare at her second. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t know the pure, sybaritic pleasure she took in being served by her former boss…after all, that was one secret she was hiding from everyone.

Everyone but Sherlock, and the Prime Minister, and Her Majesty.

“What do they say?” she asked.

“Wrong blood type.”

She grunted, and made a point of frowning down at her plate. “What type, then?”

“A positive.”

She scowled harder, and for the sake of convincing Mr. Holmes she muttered, “That’s wrong, then?” After all, at one time he’d trusted her to know all his vital stats. She could pretend to have forgotten—but she couldn’t pretend never to have known.

She could hear the clatter as he washed dishes at the sink. This had to be hell for him. It was hell for her, too, though.

She’d done it for his own good, she thought. He’d become too obvious a target. He’d become too well known in the little covert circles in which they traveled. He had stopped being a variable, and had become a constant on which their enemies relied…or which they intended to remove. Either way, it had been time for Mr. Holmes to disappear, and as the PM had pointed out, that really narrowed down to two options: death or apparent death. Anthea and Sherlock had both opted for apparent death.

And, she thought, it suited him. She considered him as she found him—as her surveillance data suggested. He was happy as Mr. Spence. He was happy with his quiet little job, and his pleasant little house, and his horse and dog. And he had found Mr. Lestrade…or Mr. Lestrade had found him.

And did it matter who found whom? What mattered, to her mind, was that she’d seen Mr. Holmes smile at Mr. Lestrade, there in the middle of the kitchen as they made eggs and rashers of bacon and toast. Just one brief second. One smile. But it was a second Mr. Holmes would never have lived if he’d stayed on in MI6. A smile he’d never have smiled—possibly because he’d have been six feet under thanks to an enemy sniper or a dose of radioactive poison.

She wasn’t sure that absolved her. But it made her feel so much better.

“Good eggs,” she said.

“Laid by my own hens,” Lestrade responded.

She refused to laugh. Just refused. DI Lestrade and chickens. Mr. Holmes and his little dog Archie.

“Any more bacon?” she asked.

He served her up two pieces.

She nibbled on one, holding it daintily between well-manicured finger and thumb. Then she looked at Holger. “Have them cross check that data,” she said. “It just—feels wrong. As though I’ve forgotten something. Tell them to check some of the other files on him.”

She hoped Mr. Holmes had been thorough when he’d substituted new information for his real stats.

Holger grunted, and went to join the other men out eating pastries they’d sent out for.

“He’s not Mycroft Holmes, Ants,” Lestrade murmured. “I’d know. Don’t you? Can’t you see the difference?”

She met his gaze, eyes flat, face as still as Mr. Holmes’ used to be. “Blood tests don’t lie,” she said. “DNA doesn’t lie.”

“And your memories do?”

“Memories change,” she said, and looked away, trying to radiate ice and indifference.

At her ankles something stirred, and whined.

She sighed, and as soon as Lestrade looked away she slipped a shard of bacon down to a warm, waiting tongue.

Pets, she thought. Who would have thought Mr. Holmes would have pets?

oOo

Sherlock frowned, estimating how events were playing out in the cottage on the far side of the road. They’d had word on blood-type. First response on DNA was in, but that only complicated things—as expected. The first data suggested a relationship between Mycroft Holmes and “Mr. Spence,” but the first cut was too imprecise to indicate more than that. DNA scans took too bloody long.

He could hear the team arguing in the living room, even though Anthea was carrying his primary pick-up. They were getting edgy. Either this was Mycroft Holmes, in which case they’d been told it was a catastrophic emergency, or it wasn’t—in which case it was a catastrophic emergency of an entirely different type, as they continued to occupy the home of a civilian and hold him and his, er…guest…under threat of death.

Sherlock performed a series of cautious estimates in his head. If he was right, this was a good time to make his entrance.

In the background he heard Holger’s voice, apparently talking to Anthea.

“Are there any other people who can identify him?”

“His brother,” Anthea said.

“Can we trust the bugger?”

Anthea’s prolonged silence was a work of art, Sherlock thought. It suggested such reluctance to get the younger Holmes involved. It suggested long consideration of how to contact him.

It made his arrival so much easier to play as a surprise.

He stood, and brushed the straw from his trousers.

Showtime for drama queens!

oOo

The door of the kitchen slammed open with a crash and a rattle that sent Mycroft’s favorite decorative plates toppling off the shelving. The responsive gasp and leap to attention on the part of the invasion force assured Mycroft his old unit still turned out good people. Even as he ducked and covered, creeping under the kitchen table and praying Lestrade would follow suit.

Anthea’s team had catapulted to the back of the house, guns at the ready, prepared to combat whatever force had come to interfere with their mission. Anthea was knocked from her chair, but rose, a living Valkyrie. She held an automatic in one hand, aimed at the gaping doorway, even as she shouted, “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot!”

Mycroft could see Lestrade huddled on the far side of the kitchen, by the refrigerator, taking cover in the L-bend of the kitchen layout. He clutched Archie tightly, keeping the little dog from racing into the center of action.

Mycroft’s heart beat like thunder. He plotted the course he’d have to travel to reach his hidden Walther, safe behind the wall panel. He could do it, now—if he could make it past the last rank of legs standing in the doorway to the living room.

But Mr. Spence would not own a gun. Mr. Spence would not leave his safe place under the table.

Even as he weighed the pros and cons, a voice cut through everything….Sherlock’s slow, acid baritone drawl.

“No. Don’t shoot. You really do _not_ want to shoot.”

Oh, God, Mycroft thought. That’s buggered everything, hasn’t it? She’ll never believe it’s not me, now.

Anthea turned, her gun still in her hand. She studied Sherlock, who stood in the perfect secret-agent James Bond stance, gun and all. She narrowed her eyes. “So he is Mycroft,” she said, voice harsh.

Sherlock smirked. “Wrong.”

She scoffed. “Oh, get real, Sherlock. What would you be doing here if he were a stranger.”

“Laughing my arse off,” Sherlock said. “Found him months ago. Perfect decoy, don’t you think?”

She snorted. “Do be serious.” She swiveled, and peered under the table. “You can come out now, Mr. Holmes. Game’s up. Little brother’s put his foot in it—as usual.”

Mycroft had no time to choose. He swallowed, meeting her eyes.

She frowned…and before he could decide what that meant, Sherlock was speaking again.

“I assure you, he’s not Mycroft.”

She stood and looked at him, eyes incredulous. “You’ve got to think I’m an idiot,” she said.

“What does Lestrade say?” Sherlock asked, with a smug little smile.

She shook her head. “Idiot says he’s not Mr. Holmes. But he would, wouldn’t he?”

He cocked his head, considering. Mycroft fought, trying to track both players from his place under the table. If he could see one, he couldn’t see the other. It was driving him crazy. Sherlock smiled, then, and said, “He might lie for Mycroft. But get real, Andy—he wouldn’t lie with him.” His voice dripped innuendo.

A squall came from the kitchen. “Oi! Not done anything like that yet, you tosser!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not for lack of desire,” he snapped, then met Anthea’s eyes. “You tell me: would Mycroft accept a lover? A real lover?”

She opened her mouth, appearing dumbstruck.

Sherlock smiled harder still. “Mmmmm. Point to me, I think. And Lestrade—can you imagine him falling for my prig of a brother?”

She shrugged, helpless.

“He’s not Mycroft,” Sherlock said again—lazy, confident, assured.

“The DNA says he’s related,” she snapped back.

He shrugged. “For all I know he’s Mycroft’s long-lost Good Twin,” he said, scornful. “Even Mummy and Father couldn’t be masochistic enough to keep two of them, after all. But this is not Mycroft.” He leaned down and peered under the kitchen table, leaning closer and closer. Just before he actually ducked his head under, he shouted “Boo!” Then he laughed as Mycroft jumped from the tension and surprise. He straightened again, and looked at Anthea. “Not Mycroft,” he said, as though that jump of surprise had settled the matter. “Mycroft was ice. Mr. Spence here is all blancmange, top to bottom and all the way to his quivering center.”

Mycroft didn’t know whether to bless his little brother or murder him for that smug assessment.

Maybe both, he thought, eyes narrow.

Anthea considered, then waved to the men still standing at alert, weapons drawn. “Stand down,” she said, wearily. “Go eat some more pastries. We’re not leaving until we get final word on the DNA samples.” She directed that as much to Sherlock as to her team. “If it’s a match, I don’t care if he is Mr. Holmes’ milksop good-boy brother,” she added. “If it’s a match he’s coming with me.”

Sherlock ducked his head in lazy agreement. “Of course,” he quipped. “After all, you might find it useful keeping a tame one on tap.”

She sniffed her disdain, and sat at the table again. Without looking under, she said, scornfully, “You can come out from under, now….Mr. Spence.”

Mycroft crept out, shot Sherlock one fulminating glance, then slipped to the other side of the kitchen, joining Lestrade, who’d stood with Archie cradled in his arms.

At least so far they were alive.

Mycroft studied his enemies. Anthea, who seemed unsure of his identity. Her gunmen, none of whom he’d met before. Sherlock, whose connection with Anthea was…peculiar. Out of character.

He frowned.

Still, he thought. They were alive still. Things could be worse.

Worse or not, though, he had quite a lot to think about.


End file.
